


Tea & Anarchy

by Eldanis, irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Christmas, Collaboration, F/M, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, Illustrated, Lower Tadfield, M/M, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldanis/pseuds/Eldanis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein sloth is not thwarted and industriousness saunters vaguely onward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea & Anarchy

**Author's Note:**

> Illustration by Eldanis
> 
> Written / drawn as a collaboration for the 2012 Good Omens Holiday Exchange.

They leave stale pastry crumbs from closing-time the night before on the bedroom windowsill: as a consequence, swallows that live in the ivy-twined eaves make a chittering, cheerful racket.  
  
Crowley pulls the nearest pillow—which happens to be Aziraphale's—over his head.  
  
“I was lying on that,” says the angel, mildly, breaking into a luxurious yawn.  
  
“S'all your fault they come crowing at dawn,” Crowley mutters into the mattress.  
  
“Don't be melodramatic,” Aziraphale sighs drowsily, rolling to nuzzle Crowley's nape.  
  
Crowley twists, halfheartedly attempting to escape; the pillow he'd been using to block out the warm, jasmine-scented morning topples to the floor. There's suddenly too much kissing to consider, and he knows it isn't wise if they expect to be open by eleven—  
  
“Toss them on the ground next time,” he gasps, “and don't forget to close it!”  
  
“But you've complained for _years_ that this room gets stuffy in summer,” Aziraphale reminds him, busy mouthing the spot below Crowley's left ear that makes him shiver uncontrollably.  
  
“You've got fifteen minutes,” says Crowley, sternly, but his voice is no longer of much use. He closes his eyes and swallows, sees sunbursts and supernovas behind his eyelids, because Aziraphale has a thigh worked in between his—startling even five years on, how awkwardly effortless they find loving each other in this bed they've rented to own—and the birds have gone quiet.  
  
“My dear, I need _five_ at most,” Aziraphale murmurs. He does something clever with his hips and pulls Crowley in closer. In seconds, Aziraphale's dressing gown is open, Crowley's pyjama bottoms are gone, and there's the taut press of sensitive flesh, too-welcome resistance as Crowley writhes beneath Aziraphale's weight.  
  
“I'll hold out on you,” Crowley taunts, but the truth is that he's already halfway there, whimpering into Aziraphale's mouth every time it finds his own. Three minutes pass. Four.  
  
“You wouldn't _dare_ ,” groans Aziraphale, simply, and that's enough to end it.  
  
(Five minutes stretch into eight, because Crowley can't bear to let go just yet.)  
  
  
  


**~*~**

  
  
  
A box-cutter in no way compares to a sword: nonetheless, there's pride to be had in the wielding, especially when dust-caked sellotape and cardboard split to reveal exotic wonders.  
  
Aziraphale breathes deeply, takes this moment of guilty pleasure for himself.  
  
“I'll just sprinkle some of that between the sheets next time, shall I?” Crowley interjects, wandering by with two cling-film wrapped plates containing homemade strawberry-basil scones.  
  
“Come have a sniff,” Aziraphale suggests with mock nonchalance, “and see for yourself.”  
  
“Last time I checked, my nose is blind,” Crowley retorts, but he's there inside a heartbeat, scones abandoned next to the till, which he's left open. Aziraphale keeps a watchful eye on the cash while Crowley inhales his first lungful of Marangi Estate FTGFOP1.  
  
Aziraphale smirks at the appreciative sigh that Crowley has failed to muffle in their newest stock.  
  
“Second flush Assam,” he volunteers smugly. “Does the chef approve?”  
  
Crowley straightens and fixes his collar, sauntering vaguely over to the till.  
  
“Honey butter,” he says, counting a stack of fivers. “Been talking to that bloke in Regent's Park.”  
  
Aziraphale unpacks the shipment, pleased to find they've also got Nuwara Eliya Ceylon and a bright, fresh _sencha_ artfully spiked with bits of mango, papaya, and goji berries.  
  
At the till, determinedly counting the previous day's takings, Crowley sniffs.  
  
“Is that tea or fruit punch, angel?”  
  
“I know you wanted some of the Darjeeling White, but I'm afraid—”  
  
“They were out of stock,” says Crowley, gloomily. “Again.”  
  
“Next time,” Aziraphale promises, leaning to kiss his cheek.  
  
“Go away,” Crowley sulks, arranging the scones. “I'm busy.”  
  
Aziraphale steps out from behind the counter and casts about the shop floor, idly scanning the magazine rack, Crowley's fussily stocked condiments caddy, and the book stacks. They aren't what he once had in Soho, not by any stretch, but they're chosen with care. The patrons appreciate his effort. Satisfied, he flips the sign on the front door from _CLOSED_ to _OPEN_.  
  
By now, both he and Crowley have got used to the ancient horseshoe nailed above the lintel.  
  
As Aziraphale steps away, it glows white-hot and welcoming in the mid-morning sun.  
  



End file.
